


The Circular Argument

by Vulgarweed



Series: No Barricades [2]
Category: Good Omens - Gaiman & Pratchett
Genre: Debate Fic, Existentialism, M/M, Theology, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right after the events of "Thunder Road (Trade In These Wings On Some Wheels)"; in which 20-year-old Adam Young the Sartre-quoting skeptic gets what he really wants from Crowley and Aziraphale without even trying. After all, after a frantic flight from certain death, who wouldn't want a good stiff drink and a nice long hard threeway...existential discussion?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Circular Argument

The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast That is Called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness poured his guests another round of the 16-year-old Lagavulin that hadn't been there before.

He lit a Galois and sat cross-legged and barefoot on his large messy bed, gold-red curls framed against the battered Joy Division poster that covered the most egregious waterstains in the wall. Candles burned in straw-wrapped wine bottles. The setting was lacking only tacky incense--and chairs: there were none, so the three of them staked out turf on the disheveled duvet.

"You did us a good turn out there, Adam," said Aziraphale.

"Told you he'd turn out all right," Crowley smiled.

"Well," Adam said, looking into his glass and then up again. "As I understand it, you two were more than ready to try to rub me out if I didn't."

"'Try' being the operative word," Crowley said, meeting his gaze. "I can't imagine that would've turned out too well for us."

"It's all right, you know," Adam giggled inappropriately. "It would've been a rational choice in your position."

Aziraphale looked up, startled. "You mean you'd've willingly…?"

"Oh no, I didn't say that! Nothin' to do with the job description or anything, I just figure I'd've fought it like most people would. And I was eleven."

"You were really a lot older than that…I think," said Crowley, who was not entirely sure. Certainly the idea of Adam was literally older than dirt, but Crowley was fuzzy on the details, and had never wanted to give much thought to Adam's conception and birth—if indeed he'd had them—anyway. That baby howling in the back of the Bentley had been awfully concrete, though. As was the young man now with his arm half-consciously thrown out along the ironwork of his bedframe. Adam shifted and stretched out his leg, big toe just brushing Crowley's hip.

Adam shrugged. "Don't reckon it matters much. Conditions were created, choices were made, that's how it goes."

"But there is a Plan," Aziraphale said a little nervously, almost unconsciously draining his glass. He only had a moment to gaze at its bottom before it was full again.

"Maybe, but it's not relevant," Adam sighed. "Think about this—" he went rummaging under the duvet until he found a notebook full of stickies and scrawl – "Sartre writes that Existentialism is not without ethics because when Man makes a choice, he must choose as if he's choosing for all Men because—"

Aziraphale looked around the room. "Do you see any men here? Your basic garden-variety human ones? Because I don't."

"True. Anyway. Because. There's something about…" Adam flipped a few looseleaf pages. "Essence not predating existence. It's a constant process of choices. To not choose is still choosing."

"But that's humans, though – " Aziraphale was still protesting.

Adam sighed again. "It's just that Crowley asked, that's all."

"Interesting stuff," Crowley yawned, thinking to himself he hadn't drunk nearly enough yet, and just who had decreed it was Interspherical Honesty Day, anyway? Well, he suspected he knew who had decreed that.

"It's not as if you haven't made choices," said Adam, as if it were utterly self-evident. "Aren't making them all the damn time." When he fixed both the demon and the angel with a little smile, the look in his eyes almost made him seem like what he'd been meant to be. "So it's true about you two. Reportin' to each other on the down-low for hundreds of years, being best drinking mates and eventually getting round to havin' it off with each other every chance you get."

Aziraphale and Crowley spluttered in an adorable unison. But one had to notice that Crowley relaxed a bit against Aziraphale, and the angel didn't tense up very much at all.

"I thought so," Adam said. "Took me for a turn when you said it before, but Anathema's usually right about stuff like that." He didn't remind them that he usually was too. "That's certainly an intriguing choice." Now he had the air of a debate-club champion sniffing victory.

"But we still don't know—" Aziraphale objected, desperate to change the subject. "Just what is and isn't in the Plan—"

"That's my whole point. We don't know. Don't look at me like that, no I don't! Not all the time! Didn't even know who I was supposed to be until the worst possible time, remember? So if they—if there is a they—can't be arsed to tell us, why should we worry about it? It's not what defines us!"

Now Crowley looked a bit disgusted. "We're all part of they, you know. And that kind of is what defines us, isn't it? Or at least it has been--what's the difference between me and him"—here he slapped his hand against Aziraphale's knee and neglected to remove it—"if not some kinda definition that goes way way back…"

"But you're an individual, you're—aw, fuck." Adam said, flailing. His train of thought had not so much derailed as morphed into an ocean liner. Fortunately one in warm, tropical, iceberg-less seas. He took a deep, deep drink.

"What was that you said about…" Aziraphale said thoughtfully, "making choices for all mankind?"

"It's not like you really choose for everybody, of course you can't, but—"

"Actually, you can. You did." Crowley reminded him.

"But besides that…the idea is…you make a choice that…could be a good choice for everyone. To the best of your knowledge."

"And I suppose you think –" Aziraphale started to say.

"Well, take an example. Pepper has this protest sign in her room. It's really old, I think she got it from eBay. It says 'Make Love, Not War.'"

"Oh, I remember those days," Aziraphale said fondly. "As the scripture says, love thy enemy…"

"…all night long," Crowley finished.

"It does not say that."

"Maybe in your translation it doesn't. I draw the line at fucking Ligur, thank you very much."

Angel and Antichrist looked at him in horror. No one had been about to suggest that.

"I was your Enemy once," Aziraphale said a little wistfully, glancing sideways at Crowley.

"More than once," Crowley leered. "Much more."

"See, that's my point—" Adam stammered, losing his point entirely in a pleasant fog of alcohol and fascination with the way Crowley and Aziraphale were looking at each other. But when he spoke up, they both looked at him.

He suddenly felt very overwhelmed by the range of choice at his disposal, newly filled glass in hand. "That – er –" It wasn't going to be eloquent, which was a pity because he had a whole range of things he'd like to write some day about Eros and self-determination and the arbitrariness of the heterosexual dyad model. "I mean, I think it's great, really. And – er-"

"Well, thank you, I suppose," said Aziraphale. "…but it's really more a matter of forgiveness, I suppose, if there's an infraction…it's not as if there was a predec—pede…well, it hadn't happened before, or since…"

"You're drunker than I thought," said Crowley with a toothy smile. One would really think Adam could have invested in some chairs. One might also think Crowley's leg probably didn't belong across Aziraphale's lap in company, but then a lot of things were out of place tonight and this was the least of them.

Adam took a very deep breath and mustered a smile that was almost calm and collected. What came out of his mouth, though, was nervous and breathless. "I just…well, it's the balance. It interests me, that's all. How you do it, an' all."

Aziraphale and Crowley urgently hoped he was not fishing for a Sex Ed 201 discussion.

"Not that, I know that," Adam waved his hand blushingly, and the demon and angel realised he had heard their thought, and either they were really telegraphing or Adam had got drunk enough to be careless about the things his mind could do. "Done it a fair amount myself, you know, I like it a lot. But I mean…"

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asked, exasperated, and then stared, because Adam was doing a spot of telegraphing himself--having this unconscious way of making himself be seen in a whole new light, all shining curls and clever eyes and full mouth that would probably taste of liquor and smoke and apples, and…oh shit.

"I mean," Adam said, licking his dry lips. "I have to try to figure this shit out on my own, because there's nobody who can tell me. Or if there is, they won't, and fuck 'em then. It's not like I ever had a mentor. Closest I got was you two."

"And we buggered that up good," Crowley said cheerfully.

"Not yet, you haven't," Adam said. Crowley blinked. Adam smiled and reached out as if to chide the demon for having his shoes on in the bed, but his hand bypassed the snakeskin entirely and lightly touched Crowley's ankle. "I just feel so…in-between."

"Well," said Aziraphale flusteredly, as his voice came out a bit hoarse. "Crowley did say that just because you were born one thing…or you were meant to be…didn't mean you have to be…he meant, you know, it's not always hereditary…"

"Doesn't help me know how to live much, does it? I mean, in the here and now," Adam sighed, a bit petulant, pouting.

"You seem to be doing fine," Crowley said, "Here and now. So far."

"What does that mean?" Aziraphale blurted, looking first at Crowley, then at Adam.

"A master tempter, he is," Crowley said quietly. "Barely lifting a finger. I know I'm good, but I had to practise."

Adam shrugged apologetically. "I guess I can't help it. So I'm not allowed to want things now? I try not to. Too much."

"I see what you mean," Aziraphale said to Crowley as calmly as he could. "I'm feeling it too."

"Good," Crowley smiled, and it gave Adam courage.

"So have you two ever—"

"No," said Crowley. "As it happens."

"But who else could it have been, really?" Aziraphale wondered.

"Oh, I can think of a few—" Crowley started, his smirk suddenly stopped cold by warm fingers on his lips, trembling. Adam, leaning over him, hair falling in his face, and the hand that brushed the curls aside was Aziraphale's. Adam turned his face a little, leaning into the angel's caress, and Crowley bit his lip hard in a surging countertug of jealousy and sharp lust.

With a glance Aziraphale and Crowley agreed on something, and then they were all up on their knees, with Adam backed against the wall and making an enticing surprised sound as two mouths explored his neck, one on each side. There was a symbol traced on cloth by someone's fingernail and Adam's black turtleneck—suddenly become the most annoying garment Ever—reconstituted itself on the floor. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast That is Called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness made a desperate little squeak and clutched at whatever he could reach—Crowley's hair, Aziraphale's arm—and pulled them both tighter in against him.

"Mmm," Crowley murmured to him, "Good?"

"Shit, yes." Candlelight shimmered in Adam's eyelashes, his skin warm and golden beneath their slow-moving hands. He gave a soft little yelp and Crowley thought Aziraphale probably just bit him, and that sent a little shock through his loins, and his head was starting to spin with possibilities. He fanned out his hand over Adam's flat belly—sauntering downwards—and jumped when Aziraphale caught his wrist.

"Slow down, dear."

"All right. Yes," muttered Crowley with his lips full of earlobe. Adam made another thrilling little sound.

"See…" Aziraphale was saying, in a husky voice. "Balance is…complex. It's not just, well, I'm this and he's that, and we play that out. No. There's a lot more…give and take involved."

"That's true," Crowley whispered. "He tempts like a pro, you know."

"I can tell," Adam panted. "You know…oh!…I was tryin' to ask…think of a way to say…a very personal question…you know, which of you is…"

"On top?" Aziraphale laughed, nipping.

"Ummm…but now I think that's a stupid question…"

"Obvious, isn't it?" gasped Crowley, fingertips in Adam's mouth. "Switchy as…ahh! …a switchy thing. Don't go trying to read signs into it either."

"Well, I wouldn't—ah, what are you…?" There was a little shifting, and then Aziraphale was behind him, hands roaming his chest languidly, pausing to scratch and pinch.

"'S all just names for sides anyway," muttered Crowley, licking Adam's throat. "Anything we ever did right…it was teamwork mostly."

"Surprised to hear you admit that, my dear," said Aziraphale, against the back of Adam's neck.

"Element of surprise too," Crowley said, leaning in close to Adam's face and parting his lips. But he seized Aziraphale by the loosened necktie and kissed him hard instead, across Adam's shoulder. And Adam watched mesmerised, they were so shockingly close: their mouths opening to each other, a flash of teeth, a glimpse of tongue, a low groan in someone's throat (perhaps his own)…and still he felt nowhere near neglected, not with the angel's fingers clutched around his hip and the demon's nails raking up his inner thigh through worn denim.

"You're…so…fucking…hot," Adam whispered, rather surprised by it, and two sets of heavy-lidded eyes turned on him. He'd never seen a serpent's eyes so heated before (few people have), or for that matter an angel's (even fewer).

But he wanted them all to be more comfortable, and they were, and naked, and they were, and the bed a little larger, and it was. There wasn't much even Adam could do about the natural clumsiness of it all, but Aziraphale actually proved the better choreographer. For all the Antichrist's attempts to do his fair part, his houseguests were utterly earthbent on tag-teaming him but good. That was how he came to be kept teetering on an edge for one of those in-an-hour eternities with one of the angel's fingers sliding in and out of him as Aziraphale whispered in his ear gratuitously and deliciously about his experiences with Crowley's talent for cocksucking--which was at the moment being lushly and enthusiastically demonstrated.

Adam's eyes were rolling back in his head when there was a quiet rushing sound and a beating of fresh air over his sweaty skin. He saw one of Aziraphale's curtains of white feathers wrapping around them, its trailing tips brushing over Crowley's hair and back, running up Adam's chest. Adam was definitely in a believing mood; he pressed his face against the clean, silky coolness, and watched Crowley working on him with those weird eyes wide open and meeting his. And then Aziraphale laughed deep in his throat when he touched a certain spot again and again, and Adam came so hard he felt his bones creaking, shouting inarticulately, accidentally invoking himself more than once.

 

(By the time there was already a televangelist far away in America suddenly interrupting his prayer--for the striking down of the purveyors of indecency in the Supreme Court and the sending of his ministry ten million dollars-to frantically jam his hands down his trousers on live television broadcast over cable to millions, who were getting a very different idea of what the "laying on of hands" through the TV screen could accomplish.)

 

"Least we could do," Crowley grinned at Adam a little later when he got his tongue back out of Aziraphale's mouth.

"As if we're even close to done, my dear."

"Sorry…didn't mean the past tense--ahhh"

"You know…er…I've been told I'm not too bad at—"

"Ready for another go already?"

"Don't underestimate him again."

"Oh, I don't, I just—ahhh….yesss, like that…"

 

(Meanwhile in London a posse of drunk and disgruntled demons had decided this whole hell's-vengeance shite was as overrated as it got and decided to make something more meaningful of their existences. They started a joyously awful ska band.)

 

"Ohh. Oh. Bite me like that again…there…"

"You're bloody incredible."

"You know what I really want…?"

"What? Tell me. Tell me now."

"I want to watch you fuck him."

Gasp.

"Oh yes, yes! I don't mind. Not at all…"

 

(In New York City, another Antichrist—an imposter, almost certainly—realised with a spot of panic that he'd left his climactic speech to the United Nations in his PDA in a taxi, probably after that third bar. "Fuck it," he muttered, and went off in search of more cocaine. This town was big enough to get lost in for a while.)

 

"Water!"

"Scotch!"

"Got any more of those cigarettes?"

"Since when do you smoke?"

"Since now. It's not as if I can get cancer."

"You're pretty orally fixated, aren't you?"

"Didn't hear you complaining before."

"Not complaining. Just observing."

"Voyeur."

"Exhibitionist."

"Your feathers…they're so soft…"

A purr of contentment. Very alert contentment.

 

(Somewhere in the Middle East, a red-haired woman missed her arranged conveyance for the first time in seven hundred years.)

 

"So…where do you stand on believing in something greater than yourself now?"

"Oh of course I do. But I think it's Crowley's tongue."

"Wonderful, his ego wasn't big enough."

"Mm, and there's something else that's more than big enough," said the demon, stroking it just to watch Adam twitch like that again. "Chip off the old block there."

"WHAT?"

"No personal experience. Just observation. Pride, you know."

"You are a voyeur too!"

"Oh c'mon, one can't not notice it."

"Well, it's not as if there aren't any good endowments on the other side," smirked Adam, glancing sidelong at Aziraphale, who had the good grace to blush. "But can we not talk about that, y'know, about….?"

"Sorry. Here, let's not talk at all." And Crowley rolled Adam beneath him, kissing him languidly while Aziraphale trembled with fiercely lusting love, waiting for his moment. The moment came very shortly, but he himself took his time.

 

(Far, far, far, far below the surface of a distant ocean, after a thousand lonely years of searching, two NASA-satellite-dish-sized eyes widened in the viscous darkness. Could it be? Could it be the sensuous perfume of another's ink, the waving of other tentacles—slender ones, inviting ones, beckoning? The crushing, lightless waters suddenly seemed a good deal more like home as the Kraken, for so long having thought himself the last of his kind, pursued his potential mate.)

 

"You are 'messing people about,' you know," the angel sighed, stroking Adam's damp hair.

"I don't mean to."

"I know."

"But you're just doing it out of your own choices, right?" Crowley asked, head resting on Aziraphale's hip. "What else should you be doing? Going into suspended animation?"

"That's what I was kind of hoping to get some idea from you about…I mean, what have you two been doing with yourselves all this time?"

"Oh, you know," Crowley flailed. "Stuff. Aziraphale invented a new…book-preservation…thingy. Oxford's using it now."

"And Crowley just pitched a screenplay," said Aziraphale proudly.

"Hmm," said Adam contemplatively. "And…"

"Otherwise it's mostly what we just spent the last five hours doing."

Aziraphale slapped him affectionately. "Well, we travel too."

"Just to vary the setting."

"Doesn't sound so bad," Adam said. "Not so bad at all. Doesn't hurt anybody. Makes you happy. It can't possibly be that simple, can it?"

"Well…" said Aziraphale. "Crowley, you did save that little girl's puppy from that fire."

"THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT! And YOU started the fire in the first place!"

"THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT!"

"Maybe it's all accidents," said Adam.

"Great," Crowley said. "Back to Square One."

The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast That is Called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness informed his guests croakily that he had to sleep before any further debate could be engaged, and that he preferred to do it in a friendly and complicated tangle of limbs, after perhaps a little bit more of that Lagavulin.

 

~fin~


End file.
